Kaveh's sketchbook is full of Alhaitham.

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Kaveh warms up his fingers on the harsh lines of Alhaitham's shoulders.

Today, he goes with charcoal, an odd choice because he doesn't typically use it when drafting blueprints. He is too lazy to sharpen the damn thing, just presses it to the parchment, held pinched between fingers that are already stained dark just seconds in.

He draws him from memory, sweeping over the paper, tracing line after line as he blocks out Alhaitham's shape. Kaveh is haunted by him. Alhaitham is a muse that haunts every fiber of his being. The picture forms itself as his fingers fly, forming the taper of Alhaitham's waist.

Kaveh smudges it, thumb smoothing over charcoal until it becomes a smear, forming the shadows that fall across Alhaitham's chest. It is less a study and more like worship; Kaveh has drawn him so many times that it doesn't feel like an exercise, it feels like a part of his day. The lines bleed together not to make a mess, but a masterpiece that he'll only tuck away.

Alhaitham does not know. Kaveh's devotion in this way is hidden in the pages of his sketchbooks, carefully tucked away into the one shelf beside his bed. Alhaitham claims much as his own but Kaveh's space is his own. He never comes uninvited, only lingers in the doorframe until Kaveh beckons him in, and then, he rarely leaves the sheets.

Kaveh frames the lines of his stomach in harsh, angled strokes. They soften into his chest, curving around the swell of his pecs. More smudges, more of his thumb digging into the rough-pressed paper, dragging charcoal dust to add depth.

It is not about drawing Alhaitham's handsomeness, it is about capturing the moments that no one else ever sees. Alhaitham as he stares out the window. Sitting in a chair, a book open against his knee, fingers pressed into the spine.

Today Kaveh draws Alhaitham as he saw him first thing that morning. Half-naked from the waist up, sleep pants loose around his hips. Still damp from the shower, hair dripping as he leaned over to plunge the coffee press. Kaveh stared, memorizing the sight of it to put down onto paper later.

He does not try to make it perfect, Kaveh draws Alhaitham as he sees him. Brooding but kind, in his own standoffish way. Eternally vexed, a permanent line etched right between his brows.

Kaveh loves every version of him, and so he sketches, melding lines together, marrying shadows at odd angles to create the curves of Alhaitham's joints.

It is a quick thing, it's always meant to be. Kaveh forces himself to be hasty otherwise he'd spend hours perfecting the line of Alhaitham's shoulder, the arch of his eyebrow, the perfect swoop of his hair as it curls into his face. There are other things to focus on, other things that should occupy Kaveh's mind, but he allows himself this at least, just a few scant moments to want and dream as he brings a page alive.

Alhaitham never asks. If he sweeps through the room as Kaveh sketches, he never looks, being the private creature that he is.

Today, Kaveh's fingers are a mess. His charcoal has worn down to a nub, pieces crumbling off with every strike against the page. Even his palm is smeared back.

Alhaitham looks back at him from the paper with a warm gaze, captured with the darkened ash that crusts Kaveh's fingers and underneath his nails.

A dream that will be tucked into his sketchbook and shelved for another day. It is easy to love a man, he thinks. It is easy to love a man from afar when it's generally accepted that it's a one-sided thing. Kaveh does not draw Alhaitham with this quiet, subtle smile that speaks both volumes and nothing at all. He's always drawn him through his artist's eyes, a well-trained gaze that sees into one's soul.

But that morning, they caught gazes and this is the look Alhaitham gave Kaveh before shuffling out of the kitchen.

It is easy to be hopelessly in love. It is hard to love a man when he might love you back.